Page 1 of The Salamander

CHAPTER 1

The Old Burying Point Cemetery, Salem, Massachusetts, June 1776

A RARE FOG, thick with the sea’s breath, cloaked the church graveyard like a shroud, swallowing the early summer’s light as mourners gathered for Hannah’s burial. Even the yellow flowers she would have loved, laid upon the grave, were veiled as if hiding their joy. Hollowed by grief, Jonathan Haraden held his nine-month-old daughter, Polly, close, her warmth a faint anchor against the chill. Seven-year-old Hannah, named for her mother, clutched his hand, her golden hair like her mother’s, her eyes fierce despite tears. She was his brave little soldier who had vowed to take care of her sister.

“Will Mama see us from Heaven, Papa?” she whispered, piercing his heart.

“Mama is with Jesus now, sweetheart, visiting Grandpapa and Grandma.”

The church that Jon and Hannah had attended offered no solace, reduced to ashes in the fire that swept Salem two years before. And their pastor, Nathaniel Whitaker, was not one for compassion. So, Reverend James Diman of the East Church had come to hold Hannah’s service. The plump, black-robed reverend with his bushy white wig stood before the open grave, his expression solemn, as his voice cut through the mist.

“We gather to honor Hannah Haraden, devoted wife and mother,” Diman intoned. “A friend to Salem’s women. Always smiling, she trusted God through life’s trials. She prayed for the colony’s liberty and stood by her husband, Jonathan, as he joined the militia to guard our coast.”

A sob broke from the crowd; handkerchiefs dabbed at tears. Diman paused, his eyes dropping to his Bible. Then, looking up, he said, “As the Apostle Paul reminded the church at Thessalonica, we do not sorrow as those who have no hope. Jesus died and rose, and when He comes again, He will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep, like our beloved sister, Hannah. We thank God for her time with us and ask Him to watch over her family.”

As the coffin was lowered into the ground and the first thud of earth struck the wood, Jon passed the sleeping Polly to Martha, his cook, and rested his hand on little Hannah’s head. She looked up at him with tear-stained cheeks. “We’ll be all right, sweetheart.”

Beside him, Martha muttered, “Grief’s a heavy burden, sir, but life goes on. You need to live for your daughters, as the mistress would want. ’Sides, them redcoats won’t wait if America’s to win this war.”

Her tongue, sharp as her kitchen knife, hid the care he knew she had for his family. Without his asking, she had already secured a wet nurse for Polly.

“We’ll need to get the young’uns home,” she added, winking, “your friends’ll soon fill the house with food and sympathy.”

Nodding, he walked with Hannah to Reverend Diman. “I hope you will join us for the repast.”

“Of course,” Diman replied. “Mary will come, too, for she has counsel if you will hear a friend’s advice.”

“I’d be grateful.” He liked Reverend Diman’s wife, Mary, and, in truth, he felt adrift with Hannah gone.

The mourners, many of them ship captains, militiamen and their wives, made their way to his home on Charter Street close to the cemetery and a mere block from the harbor. Their boots rang on the cobblestones as the fog thinned, revealing the salt-washed air.

With Hannah’s hand in his, Jon and the reverend made their way to where Mary Diman waited. A small woman, she was almost engulfed in her long black gown with white fichu draped around her shoulders and elaborate white lace cap hiding her brown hair. Her smile was welcoming as she joined them to followed the mourners.

By the time they reached his house, it was full of guests and the scent of roast chicken, cod stew and fresh bread. Jonathan released Hannah. “Welcome your friends,” he urged her, “be our hostess.”

Hannah bit her lip. “Very well, Papa.” She curtsied bravely to a friend’s mother, then slipped away, clutching her mother’s locket. Too young for the role, she nonetheless carried it with fierce dignity. Jon’s chest tightened. Both he and his daughter were being asked to step into roles too soon.

A memory broke through his grief, the first time he had seen Hannah Deadman. At seventeen, she had swept into the cooperage where he had become skilled at making barrels. She was looking for a barrel for the merchant she worked for, Joshua Ward. It was as if the sun itself had made an appearance, her golden hair, her blue eyes. Smitten, he had fumbled his tools, knowing even then she would claim his heart. The sting of that memory was too fresh, pulling him back to the crowded room where life pressed on without her.

The reverend was right when he said Hannah trusted God through life’s trials. They had lost three sons in infancy and yet she never retreated from her faith.

Martha, bustling nearby, caught his gaze. “You mustn’t brood like a fogged in ship, sir. Your girls need you lively.”

He returned her a tight-lipped smile, her blunt words softening the ache in his chest.

Silas, his man of all work, more elegantly attired than his usual brown breeches and waistcoat, limped forward balancing a tray of red wine glasses, his gray beard trimmed, his weathered face solemn. “She was a fine woman, sir—sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Silas.” Jon handed glasses to the Dimans before taking one for himself. The wine steadied him though food held no appeal.

Mary Diman smiled up at him. “It is good to see you and young Hannah surrounded by friends.”

Around them the crowd conversed, enjoying the camaraderie a wake always brought. Mourners came, spoke brief words, and moved on. Jon stood as if within a fog, though the room was warm with firelight. He heard the thud of earth again, insistent. Yet somewhere beneath the ash and smoke of grief, a small ember glowed, stubborn and alive.

“What are your plans if I might ask?” said Reverend Diman.

For a moment, Jon stared into his wine. Plans? He could scarcely think past the sound of soil striking the coffin lid that morning. Hannah’s laugh still hung in the corners of the house, ready to undo him if he turned too quickly.

He cleared his throat. “I…Richard Cabot, son of my old employer, George Cabot, has asked me to serve as First Lieutenant aboard the Tyrannicide. It’s the same rank I hold in the militia.” His voice felt like it belonged to someone else, speaking of a life already far from this dim parlor.